The Dallas daily herald. [volume] (Dallas, Tex.) 1873-1887, 1887-05-21
A PROVENCE ROSE

"W here have | seen her before?"
thought Vance Erskine, as he pressed
forward in the crowd. There vas
standing room only"
lie had wandered into the music
hall after long, dull day in the bank,
spent in pu2zling his brain over &C
counts. He felt sudden longing for
a new experiments passionate inn
pulse to break through restraint
that had more than once led him in.
to thorny ways and perilous paths,
from which he had been glad to come
back TO a safe conventionality once
more.
There was young girl singing an
Italian song. She was clad in q sim
pie white gown, and there was a white
rose in her dusky hair. Her soft, dark
eyes were iull OF unconscious ycarn-
ing She aid not see the audience, APP
parently, but looked away to some
haunting scene. The tender grace ola
day that was dead embodied her. En-
skine seemed TO follow that gaze. His
imagination kindled again. This is
what he saw: 4 rose garden in fair
Provence, that land ofsong and story.
A white mist was curling upward from
it under the sunshine; like a curtain it
was lifted, and the lairest scene Err
skine had ever looked upon was
stretched out before his eager eyes.
A wilderness OF roses-that was all!
Impossible TO describe the riot OF col
or. the wealth OF incense. There was
a gray castle in the distance; but
Erskine did not look at that. Neither
did his glance dwell long on the How
ers, for there was u young girl there
gathering them, and his eyes met those
other eyes, soft and dark, tender as a
Southern night, and rested there.
There was u tender reserve, almost
sadness, in the face, and the flush on
the cheeks was not deeper than that
OF the blush rose she held in her hand.
Erskine was not an artist, he was on
ly bank clerk on a holiday; but that
picture was photographed on his soul
She stood by mossgrown fountain,
where a wingless dragon spouted up a
silvcry stream amid dripping wreaths
OF maiden hair. Huge cypress trees
stood in the background; but in the
illuminated space among the flowers
was this gracious figure in n dull-blue
rown, that defined the soft curves and
rounded outlines.
What irony oil fate had transplant
ell her from the wilderness ofroses to u
London music.hall2 He felt at once
an imperative need OF knowing the
story.
The voice scared up like lark to
meet the sunbeam. A storm OF ap.
piause followed, and the young glrl
seemed suddenly recalled to the pres
emf. she glanced about timidly and
bowed slightly. There were no smirks
or bold glances. She gided away
quietly, and the encore did not bring
her back.
Vance cast one glance at the glitter
ing blonde who followed and then he
rushed out of the hall. He astonish-
ed the nearest florist by emptying his
purse-not to we'll filled-for roses.
Dark, velvety Jacqueminots and
cream-white blossoms, mingled with
other pink as girls blush, in his hur-
ried grasp.
"Ah, hallol" said voice near him,
as he paused at the stage entrance,
wondering vaguely as to what should
be his next step. "Why, Vance, my
boy, are you a captive in her train
too2"
"Oh, get out" answered Vance, i'm
patiently, looking around at q pom
pous.looking individual with q heavy,
rubicund visage and scant hair. He
was man OF 45, and an authority
on Change, but he had by no means
laid aside the follies OF youth.
"Bah-fowers," said Mr.. Zachary
Sheldon, looking at the roses; "they
would like diamonds better"
Come" said Vance, fiercely, as
tonished at the sudden fire in his
heart, mo sneers, Pm not in the mood
for them
'Well. we won't quarrel" said Shell.
don, with a mirthful laugh. "Oi
course it's the blonde Lillian"
Anunconscious feeling OF relief came
into Vance's heart.
The other one is a poem-Rosalia,
beautiful Rosalia. She's a flower, a
sunbeam-no, too pale for a sunbeam
"a silver noonbeam. She says--"
At these word Vance regretted his